


The Get Go

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Mommy Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know. I know, okay? I-" she presses her fingertips to her eyes, and they pick up the pigment from her eyeshadow, gold like stardust. "If I make this appearance, we'll make this month's rent, and then tomorrow, we'll go wherever you want. I'll drive you to Disneyland and we can see Mickey."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Get Go

His mother is an actress, and she spends the better part of his childhood hiding his existence.  
  
"Be good for Santa," she says, checking her reflection in the mirror. She doesn't look satisfied with what she sees; too much Alicia Silverstone and not enough Marilyn Monroe. She frees a one last tendril of hair from a roller and it bounces free, waves over her golden skin. She's a natural brunette- Jett's seen countless pictures of her as a girl, laughing and smiling in a way he's never seen in real life- but it's the nineties and everyone wants a blonde bombshell.  
  
"Being good is boring," Jett whines. "I want to go with you."  
  
She lifts her lipstick, traces the curve of her cupid's bow. She is every man's Venus, a B movie scream queen. She is sex and love and promises; things Jett doesn't quite understand yet, but he can feel them, tugging at the edges of his consciousness whenever he sees a pretty girl, a handsome boy.  
  
"You can't, honey bunny. Santa will take real good care of you."  
  
Jett rolls his eyes. Santa is their cleaning lady and part time sitter. She barely speaks any English and thinks it counts as babysitting when she sits down with Jett in front of dumb telenovelas and a bowl of candy.  
  
Jett does like the candy.  
  
"But Mom-"  
  
"Hey, hey." She looks away from the mirror, _finally_ , kneeling next to him in her skyscraper heels. "What did I say about the M-word?"  
  
Jett sighs.  
  
"Santa might hear, _little brother_." His mom winks the flirty wink, the one that charms audiences all over the country before she dies in a fit of blood splattered glory. Jett's seen every one of her movies at least eighteen times. She calls it _research_.  
  
She enrolled him in acting classes a few months ago. Jett wanted to join the swim team.  
  
"Can't I go stay with Dad?"  
  
His mom's lips thin, smearing blood-orange until it cakes at the edges of her mouth. "No. Why would you want anything to do with him, silly boy? Has he even called?"  
  
She softens the words; ruffles Jett's hair, which he hates.  
  
"Nah. He will," Jett replies, but he's not all that certain, and his mom doesn't try to correct him. His dad is a Hollywood cowboy, tilted Stetson and bolero ties, dust in his spurs. Or he's James Dean in his blue jeans, or Valentino; a white knight in a suit and tie. The story changes every time his mom tells it.  
  
Jett doesn't get any of the references. In real life his dad drives a beat up El Dorado, scuffed black paint and silver aluminum cans crushed in the back seats. He does odd jobs and isn't anything like an actor. Which is mostly embarrassing; Jett always lies when the kids in his class ask what his dad does.  
  
Maybe he does like acting, a lot, so much; he likes to pretend he is someone else.  
  
Someone better.  
  
He doesn't mind how embarrassing his dad is right now; he just wants family, anyone but Santa and her pitying looks and her Guatamalen lullabies. "But Mom-"  
  
"M-word," she chides, wagging a finger in his face. Stubbornly, Jett refuses to apologize. She's not fooling anyone with her little brother charade. "Jett." Now she's using her mom-voice, but it's not right, rusty from disuse, more like a movie accent than something real. "Please." She sounds tired. "Just. I have to be at the opening tonight."  
  
"It's my birthday."  
  
"I know. I know, okay? I-" she presses her fingertips to her eyes, and they pick up the pigment from her eyeshadow, gold like stardust. "If I make this appearance, we'll make this month's rent, and then tomorrow, we'll go wherever you want. I'll drive you to Disneyland and we can see Mickey."  
  
Her dress costs hundreds; the rent for the mansion even more. If they moved to an apartment, they could afford to live off more than takeout pizza and dreams.  
  
"I'm too old for Mickey."  
  
"We'll go somewhere else then. Anywhere. You name it." She straightens, fluffs a curl. Her earrings flash; real diamonds. A gift from some ridiculous boyfriend; a prince, a rapper, who even knows? She could sell them and they could live like royalty, but- "Appearances. Appearances are everything. You remember that, baby."  
  
Like Jett could ever, ever forget.


End file.
